by Matthew Kenneth Kosak
But don’t these clouds, like sculpted flowers
Rise hot, in June’s summer gardens?
And Time speaks softly in the wind
Of change and bright things yet to come
And they in their course take their places
As plants grow and populate a self-checked sky?
I exchange these hazy views of eternity
For the words with which my poor pencil writes
You were once of the lovely things
My child in my eye took, gleaning from nature
And now you have taken what’s been given
The echo of your voice rings in the things
That transport a reflection through space
Of the self, that paints alone and hidden.